“He’s not unconscious,” Warren said.
“We believe that he is. His eyes may be open, but that’s just a reflex.”
“He’s screaming,” Warren said. “I can hear him.”
Naomi looked at him. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“No one else can hear him.” Naomi excused herself and went to talk to one of the Cabalists.
Warren continued watching the man, listening to his screams. Looking at the X-ray view of the pockets of Nester demons scattered throughout the body, Warren couldn’t help thinking about the creatures that had been in the IV drip.
Naomi returned to him.
“What would have happened if one of those Nester demons in the IV bag had gotten into my bloodstream?” Warren asked.
“That didn’t happen. They helped heal you. Concentrate on that.” Naomi glanced at his hand. “Since your body isn’t rejecting the hand, there’s a lot to hope for.”
Warren didn’t say anything, but he kept his hopes small. He wanted to kill the man that had taken his hand from him. Every time he thought that, he could hear Merihim laughing quietly in the back of his mind.
Keep thinking that way, the demon encouraged. Hate will make you grow strong. And if you hate enough, I’ll make you powerful enough to do anything you want to.
The poultice across Warren’s wrist had been made from the slime of yet another demon that had been found within the parts of London where the Burn had caused alterations. That one had looked like a snail, but it had been three feet tall and equipped with a tongue capable of striking over a distance of ten feet. The tongue-strike carried lethal toxins. The Cabalists still didn’t have the proper name, but they were calling them Death Darts at present.
Instead of a secretion, though, the Cabalists had learned to scrape the mucus-based body from the shell and mix herbs in with it. Then they used more arcane powers to blend the snail’s body with the herbs and energy. They’d learned to use that concoction to enable host bodies to accept transplanted materials like horns. Evidently whatever property that protected the Death Darts from the toxins they carried also allowed the grafts to take.
No one had ever tried to graft a limb to anyone before Warren, but they had tried since. So far, those who had suffered the amputations to attempt to take on demon limbs had rejected their new appendages.
Warren’s body never tried to reject Merihim’s hand. Instead the scale line from the hand crept past the heavy scarring at the wrist, growing almost as Warren watched. The scales stopped at mid-forearm.
“I think the scales have added a layer of reinforcement,” Dr. Metser told Warren on the morning of the seventh day. The physician was in his fifties and sported a white coat, heavy tattooing, and ram’s horns that he’d had grafted on immediately following the invasion of the demons. “I’m certain that your body isn’t going to reject it. How does it feel today?”
“Fine,” Warren answered. That was what he always said.
“Can you move it?” The physician always asked that.
“No.” Warren never tried.
“Perhaps we could take off the halo.” Metser referred to the hardware that encircled the demon’s hand. Rigid metal spikes pierced the fingers, holding them straight and steady.
“No,” Warren said. He didn’t intend to let them remove it.
“I see.” Metser struggled to disguise his impatience and his curiosity. “I think it’s healed well enough to experiment with the range of movement you may have left to you.”
“And I don’t.”
Metser sighed and nodded. “Have you tried to move it?”
“Yes,” Warren lied. “I can’t.” In truth, though, he could wiggle each of the fingers a little. He never did so with anyone watching.
It’s time, Merihim whispered in the back of Warren’s head. The hand is healed. It’s yours now.
Then I can use it—or not, Warren replied.
Don’t you want your revenge on the man that maimed you? the demon taunted.
Warren didn’t say anything. He tried not to let his thoughts betray him.
You want revenge, Warren. I know that you do. I can feel it burning inside you.
The physician was speaking. Warren tried to focus on the man’s words but couldn’t.
I’ve given you a gift, Merihim said, unlike anything my kind has ever given before. You don’t even know the full extent of it.
Warren was afraid to find out. A demon’s price was usually a man’s soul.
I wouldn’t want anything so tawdry, Merihim said. I want you to work for me.
To do what?
To help me. This is a new place for us. There are kingdoms to be carved out here. I want everything that I can get, and you can help me.
Warren tried not to think about that.
The Cabalists are proving powerful, Merihim said. They will be a deciding force in the coming struggles in this world. Most of the demons don’t want anything to do with humans.
But you’re willing to make an exception?
I am. I want you to lead that faction I will take from their ranks. You will grow strong among them, because I will help you, and then—when the time is ripe—you will lend your strength to mine. You will be my champion, and I will let no one ever hurt you.
Memory of the pistol shots that had ended his mother’s life then wounded him and ended his father’s life echoed inside Warren’s head. They sounded so close that he could smell the gunpowder.
No one, the demon repeated. No one will ever be able to hurt you.
Warren stared at the demon’s hand. I’ve already been hurt.
It will be the last time. You will be stronger than any of them, Warren. You will be mine.
Warren closed his eyes. He heard the physician asking him if he was all right, but he ignored the man.
The man that took your hand is fleeing the city as you sit here, Merihim said. Do
